âNearly,' Lucio said. âJust part of St Agatha's tomb to finish. Do you want to see?'
She nodded, but drew his arms further around her waist. âIn a minute.'
A bird was wheeling its languid circles down the ridge. She traced the clean dark span of it, the flutter of its wing tips. Below, the river was faint as a pencil line through the valley, a shed hair catching the light from time to time. All the details of his journals, of his paintings, were now familiar to her: it was the furthest she'd ever been from Leyton, and it felt like coming home.
Acknowledgements
I would like to name two books that were particularly helpful in my research for this novel:
Italy's Sorrow: a year of war, 1944â45
by James Holland and
Millions like Us: women's lives in war and peace 1939â49
by Virginia Nicholson. I am indebted to the kindness of Mrs Gillian Spokes, who opened the church of St Margaret of Antioch in Denton, Northants, especially for me to view the paintings of Sir Henry Bird and witness a beautiful example of twentieth-century mural work in a thirteenth-century church.
Thank you to the team at Scribe, especially Aviva Tuffield for taking a punt on a few thousand words and having faith that I'd deliver the rest (eventually). I'm so sorry I overshot my deadlines and you didn't get to see this book off into the world. It's still undoubtedly your baby, and your guidance was not just invaluable for the manuscript, it was the best kind of mentorship for me as a writer. Ian See, you were such a pleasure to work with and your judgement impeccable â thank you for all your effort. Thanks, Cate Kennedy, for being so generous with your time, for the gate-crashing, late-night karaoke, churros and all! Thank you to The Writers' House, Varuna, for a much-needed residency that helped break the back of the book, and to James Bradley, Kathryn Heyman and the inaugural Sydney Faber Academy participants for their feedback. But most importantly, to my wonderful writing group â Sam, Suzanne and Barbara, who were with me from the first: the time you dedicated to reading the endless drafts was such a gift. Thank you for getting me out of the house and keeping me sane.
While my story is entirely fictional, it owes a debt to many people in my family. My thanks go to my uncle and godfather, Luciano Riccioni, who some years ago took the time to record for me his memories of growing up in Italy and migrating to England. Uncle Luci, you have always been such a well of patience and love â thank you for your translation help and for letting me pick your brains with bizarre questions at the oddest of moments. To my dad, Albis, the embodiment of the immigrant work ethic and a great storyteller in his own right, thank you for passing a little of that on to me so I could finish this. You've always been a bigger influence than you can imagine. Aunty Angela and Aunty Mary â I loved listening to you, Nonna and Nonno during all those summers in Italy and apologise now for not telling you I was mentally taking notes. To my sister Sylvana, thank you for first putting the idea in my head with that pep talk when I still had nappy brain. âYou know, you should write,' you told me, and it was like suddenly being given permission. Thank you Big Sis, Suzanne, for keeping me going with long-distance encouragement and titbits of rural life, not to mention letting me live in Oakdene and introducing me to Watties shop all those years ago â a big influence. And Marcus, thank you for the lesson in hunting etiquette. To my gorgeous Lydia and Henry, thanks for never respecting the closed door and always keeping me grounded in reality â life, after all, is more important than novels. And finally my love and thanks to GJ, for never asking to read it, for never complaining about the 5 a.m. alarm and for never stinting in your quiet, unquestioning support, especially when there seemed no end and no dinner in sight. I couldn't have done it without you.